The journey back to Tiltspire was a hard one for Saradis, despite that she spent it in the plush staterooms of a skyraft, looked over by scowling, distrustful rafters. In the battle of the Slowlands she had lost all but three of her most loyal Rai. Saradis was already planning, deciding which of those in Tiltspire could be trusted, or who could be leveraged into a position where they relied on her. New alliances would be needed.
She was in pain, which made everything worse. Her left arm was broken, ribs cracked, and she could barely put any weight on her right ankle. The drugs that would numb her pain also dulled her thinking and she could not bear that, so she fought through the pain and planned the way ahead.
Despite all of this, she was also full of joy. Zorir had come. She had seen her God’s power. She had seen what she had worked her entire life for come into being and known in that moment that she had been right to choose that clanless boy all those years ago. His weakness was not the flaw she thought it was. His weakness was the mechanism of Zorir’s ascension, the spark that would light the fire. She had seen him lose himself, be overtaken by her god and Zorir had been pleased, he had spoken to her.
What power Zorir had! Power that rivalled even that of the Slowlands, she had never heard of such a thing. Even remembering how Du-Nahere changed, his body swelling, the four arms that grew from him, the way the Slowlands ebbed around him. It thrilled her in a way she could barely understand.
Looking back, she had only truly been scared once. It was not when the enemy soldiers attacked. It was not when the hated arrows flew and not even when the viewing stand collapsed around her and she had to fight for her life against one of her own Rai.
No, she would gladly give her life for Zorir.
The great fear was when Du-Nahere, lost, consumed by her god, followed the woman Furin. She knew at that moment that some small remnant of him remained. Even that had thrilled her, because she was sure in his confusion he would have wiped out their attackers, destroyed them all and maybe even the woman Furin, the power around him was so intense, so destructive. It had been more beautiful than she could possibly ever have imagined.
Then he was gone.
The woman her Rai called the abomination, the walking duller, Sorha. She put out the light of Zorir, the beautiful blue and purple fire, the liquid power that twisted around the chosen. Worse, she possessed the skill to kill him. In that moment there was the very real risk that everything she hoped for would be ended with one blow of Sorha’s sword.
Then Zorir spoke to her. The god wanted the Cowl-Rai sent to them in the darkness of below and what release she had felt in that moment. The powerful thrill of contact with Zorir driving all pain and fear from her body, leaving only certainty. She knew what she must do with a crystal clarity. Watched as the Rai let loose with fire. As the ropes that held up the bridge ignited. Even then worry, how long would it take? Would she be in time?
Two figures on the rope bridge, fighting. Sword against axe.
She held her breath, until the moment the bridge disintegrated, rope and wood falling away, taking Cahan and the woman with it.
She was dead, of course. Sorha was no longer Rai. The fall would kill her, but it would not kill Du-Nahere. Zorir would not allow that. Even with his power dulled by the woman he would survive. She knew that the same way she knew the bones in her arm and shoulder were broken. It was part of her.
She spent long, excruciating hours writing down everything about the attack in the Slowlands. Everything that had happened and how they had been attacked. Sorha had set up the viewing stand, she had been in charge of the security around it. Easy for Saradis to imagine she set up some sort of betrayal. But that did not fit with what she knew of the woman. She cared about little but her revenge on Cahan Du-Nahere. To be in league with enemies, Forestals, it did not make sense.
Then Saradis wondered how the attack was possible. How they had managed to sneak up on the stand in the Slowlands without being seen when the land was so flat and so bare?
Fortunately, they had had the bodies of the reborn women. The deathless ones. When they woke she would find out. She would enjoy finding out, and what was more, she needed to find out. Knowing what had happened would help her when she faced the questions of the Rai of Tiltspire.
But not now. Not on the skyraft. She put down her pen, her account finished. There was little more she could do so she would take the drugs now and let them dull the pain and her mind. When she returned to Tiltspire she would be as healed as she could be. She would be strong and she would ready.
The time was coming.
Zorir’s time was coming.